I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed---and gazed---but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

(7 April 1770 – 23 April 1850)

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughsAnd stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,And watch her feet, how they can dance

No time to wait till her mouth canEnrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare.

Winter's Beauty

Is it not fine to walk in spring,When leaves are born, and hear birds sing?And when they lose their singing powers,In summer, watch the bees at flowers?Is it not fine, when summer's past,To have the leaves, no longer fast,Biting my heel where'er I go,Or dancing lightly on my toe?Now winter's here and rivers freeze;As I walk out I see the trees,

Wherein the pretty squirrels sleep,All standing in the snow so deep:And every twig, however small,Is blossomed white and beautiful.Then welcome, winter, with thy powerTo make this tree a big white flower;To make this tree a lovely sight,With fifty brown arms draped in white,While thousands of small fingers showIn soft white gloves of purest snow.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! And fare-thee-weel, a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile!

Robert Burns

(Jan 25,1759 – 21 July 1796)

Hiawatha's Departurefrom The Song of Hiawatha

By the shore of Gitchie Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam, In the pleasant Summer morning, Hiawatha stood and waited. All the air was full of freshness, All the earth was bright and joyous, And before him through the sunshine, Westward toward the neighboring forest Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, Passed the bees, the honey-makers, Burning, singing in the sunshine. Bright above him shown the heavens, Level spread the lake before him; From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, Aparkling, flashing in the sunshine; On its margin the great forest Stood reflected in the water, Every tree-top had its shadow, Motionless beneath the water. From the brow of Hiawatha Gone was every trace of sorrow, As the fog from off the water, And the mist from off the meadow. With a smile of joy and triumph, With a look of exultation, As of one who in a vision Sees what is to be, but is not, Stood and waited Hiawatha.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (April 7,1770 – April 23, 1850)

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

As from the house your mother seesYou playing round the garden trees,So you may see, if you will lookThrough the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far away,And in another garden, play.But do not think you can at all,By knocking on the window, callThat child to hear you.

He intent Is all on his play-business bent.He does not hear, he will not look,Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,He has grown up and gone away,And it is but a child of airThat lingers in the garden there.

My Shadow

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all. He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Robert Lewis Stevenson

Tam O' Shanter

When chapmen billes leave the street,And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,As market days are wearing late,An' folk begin to tak the gate;While we sit bousing at the nappy,And getting fou and unco happy,We think na on the lang Scots miles,The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,That lie between us and our hame,Where sits our sulky sullen dame.Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonie lasses.) O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was nae sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the L--d's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale:-- Ae market-night, Tam had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither-- They had been fou for weeks thegither! The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious,wi' favours secret,sweet and preciousThe Souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy! As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You sieze the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white--then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm.-- Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg-- A better never lifted leg-- Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire;Despisin' wind and rain and fire. Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares: Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.By this time he was cross the ford, Whare, in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Chairlie brak 's neck-bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mingo's mither hang'd hersel'.-- Before him Doon pours all is floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll: When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!-- The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge: He scre'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.-- Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some develish cantraip slight, Each in its cauld hand held a light.-- By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murders's banes in gibbet-airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi blude red-rested; Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which even to name was be unlawfu'. Three lawyers' tongues, turn'd inside out, Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout; Three priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, Lay stinking, vile in every neuk. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The piper loud and louder blew; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens, Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,Louping and flinging on a crummock,I wonder did na turn thy stomach!But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie:There was ae winsome wench and waulie, That night enlisted in the core, Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore; (For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear.) Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie,- Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for he wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! But here my Muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was, and strang), And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main; Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason ' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo. Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! In vain thy Kate awaits thy commin'! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o' the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle - Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail; The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.No, wha this tale o' truth shall read,Ilk man and mother's son take heed; Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think! ye may buy joys o'er dear - Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

Robert Burns

Oh, to be in England Now that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England - now! And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops - at the bent spray's edge That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower, - Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Robert Browning (1812-1889)

The Bluebell by Anne Bronte

A fine and subtle spirit dwellsIn every little flower,Each one its own sweet feeling breathesWith more or less of power. There is a silent eloquenceIn every wild bluebellThat fills my softened heart with blissThat words could never tell.

Yet I recall not long agoA bright and sunny day,'Twas when I led a toilsome lifeSo many leagues away;

That day along a sunny roadAll carelessly I strayed,Between two banks where smiling flowersTheir varied hues displayed.

Before me rose a lofty hill,Behind me lay the sea,My heart was not so heavy thenAs it was wont to be.

Less harassed than at other timesI saw the scene was fair,And spoke and laughed to those around,As if I knew no care.

But when I looked upon the bankMy wandering glances fellUpon a little trembling flower,A single sweet bluebell.

Whence came that rising in my throat,That dimness in my eye?Why did those burning drops distil --Those bitter feelings rise?

SEPAL, petal, and a thornUpon a common summer's morn,A flash of dew, a bee or two,A breezeA caper in the trees, --And I'm a rose!

I HIDE MYSELF WITHIN MY FLOWER

I hide myself within my flower,That fading from your Vase,

You, unsuspecting, feel for me --Almost a loneliness.

PERHAPS YOU'D LIKE TO BUY A FLOWER?

Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower?But I could never sell.If you would like to borrowUntil the daffodilUnties her yellow bonnetBeneath the village door,Until the bees, from clover rowsTheir hock and sherry draw,Why, I will lend until just then,But not an hour more!

FRINGED GENTIAN

God made a little gentian;It tried to be a roseAnd failed, and all the summer laughed.

But just before the snowsThere came a purple creatureThat ravished all the hill;And summer hid her forehead,And mockery was still.The frosts were her condition;The Tyrian would not comeUntil the North evoked it."Creator! shall I bloom?"

WE SHOULD NOT MIND SO SMALL A FLOWER --

We should not mind so small a flower --Except it quiet bringOur little garden that we lostBack to the Lawn again.So spicy her Carnations nod --So drunken, reel her Bees --So silver steal a hundred flutesFrom out a hundred trees --That whoso sees this little flowerBy faith may clear beholdThe Bobolinks around the throneAnd Dandelions gold.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886)

All Things Bright And Beautiful Hymn

All things bright and beautiful,All creatures great and small,All things wise and wonderful,The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,Each little bird that sings,He made their glowing colours,He made their tiny wings.

All things bright and beautiful,All creatures great and small,All things wise and wonderful,The Lord God made them all

The purple-headed mountain,The river running by,The sunset and the morning,That brightens up the sky;

All things bright and beautiful,All creatures great and small,All things wise and wonderful,The Lord God made them all

The cold wind in the winter,The pleasant summer sun,The ripe fruits in the garden,He made them every one;

All things bright and beautiful,All creatures great and small,All things wise and wonderful,The Lord God made them all

The tall trees in the greenwood,The meadows for our play,The rushes by the water,To gather every day;

All things bright and beautiful,All creatures great and small,All things wise and wonderful,The Lord God made them all

He gave us eyes to see them,And lips that we might tellHow great is God Almighty,Who has made all things well

All things bright and beautiful,All creatures great and small,All things wise and wonderful,The Lord God made them all.